Vincent Salvador

A pretty spray of blood into the air flowed from a perfectly executed slash. The display was incidental to Vincent. But a flash between heartbeats. Completely expected.

As he breathed in, the blade returned to the same place to sink in deeper. His exhale was like a laugh as the limb tumbled free. The scream of the Ratsin was distant, unimportant. For this moment, only the coming counterattack was a concern. Only a little, it was easily avoided. Childsplay. The monster’s ragged claws flurried in the air in the manner of an enthusiastic wave. Smirking, Vincent thought of the act as a final farewell.

Vincent feinted towards the missing hind leg. Animalistic instinct threw the monster into a panic. The Ratsin moved to protect its vulnerability. A blink and he was already elsewhere. It had lost the swordsman as his attack swooped freely towards the exposed flank. Into the soft belly of the beast, the blade plunged. The steel ripped free, dyed red and dripping. His red thrill approved. He flushed at the bloody shine.

The young Ratsin shrieked and wriggled into a rolling ball to die. Absently frowning, his attention began to fade with the assumed victory. Vincent ended the monster with a quick slash through the neck.

It hadn’t the strength left to resist.

A better fight than the small ones, but not enough, decided the swordsman. What I want is the challenge of a mutated one. I do cheer for my students… still, how I wish I could have taken that one alone. Malachi is unlikely to be pleased with me challenging any of them alone.

With that potential disturbance taken care of, he headed back towards his party.

Their current focus was one of the large, muscular Raisins. Strong, but slow and dumb breed. Vincent had been more than happy to volunteer to take out a trio of smaller rats. He had hoped that three on one combat would be more fulfilling. A minor thrill in the end. The small lift in his mood soured some upon returning and seeing assistance was still unnecessary.

Even now as the beast raged; it was deflating. Lethargy numbed his mind at the idea of rejoining the party. There was no edge of death here, no opportunity to test limits. He saw that the fight was a foregone conclusion. They had learned how to work together too well.

His expertise was unnecessary here.

Phelian especially was coming into his own, the aspiring warrior showing more confidence than bluster now. His devoted student was dipping and ducking all the while still keeping the Ratsin close. Flowing perfectly so that his sword could lash out periodically. Making sure to call down and hold the monster’s attention.

A perfect execution to keep the rest of the party free to pour on the damage. There was a boyish charm to how the man commanded the assault. They didn’t hesitate to follow Phelian’s orders. Mutual respect had bound them all.

Out looking in, Vincent almost felt a little lonely.

The red thrill was dimmed to a warm afterthought as he approached the fight. Growing more bored at every second. Hector had pinched the rat between Phelian and himself. Eyes scorched out by Allen left the Ratsin blind and flailing. It was reacting more to pain than fighting at this point. Vincent sighed, feeling dreary. There was a burst of light as Kai put the monster on its back. The battle wasn’t over yet, but the rat thing was essentially a corpse with an expiring heart.

The swordsman paused in the act of sheathing his blade. A pull of instinct turned him, guiding the eye. Something's attention burned into his back.

Vincent almost didn't notice the chill running up his spine over the quickfire excitement rushing through his vein. As the thrill burst back to life, he turned to the threat with a grin. His feet danced forward in a gleeful warm-up. The swordsman lazily held the point ready in the direction of the contrasting bloodlust. Dull red eyes like dying embers hovered among the shadows. The approaching monster announced itself with a growl like to rusty nails on a chalkboard.

Emaciated claws broke the line of shadow first. A moment later, the starved beast loomed out of cover with a hissing breath. Every shift of the limbs creaked as it prowled forward. The Ratsin stared silently at Vincent.

A hush lay heavily between the two for a beat. Then a flurry of movement. The rat thing leaped forward, claws an erratic tangle and the jaws snapping rapidly. His body was already in motion. Quick, sure swordwork guided the claws away as he stepped to safety. The monster landed with a clatter of limbs. An almost mechanical looking roll, and it was back onto its feet.

Another stare down with Vincent began.

Blanching, the swordsman stepped into his Form. The boost was necessary to dodge the next strike. A slam attack with both hands. Intending to impale, instead the Ratsin shattered the ground. Rock shards scattered all around. Under enhancement, Vincent darted forward and then circled to the right. Aiming for an exposed flank. The sword plunged through the ribs, without any resistance. Disturbingly so. He had already retreated when the counter came. Claws slashed the air, only a small nip catching at his shirt.

The swordsman glanced down at the blade. He frowned, unfulfilled, by the thin tacky blood. The tackiness defied his attempt to clean it off. Stubborn clumps held on. Growling with annoyance, Vincent charged.

A sudden flurry of slashes opened wounds across the thin Ratsin’s body. Its blood was slow to flow, welling like thick sap. The rat thing didn’t flinch at all either. Even with growing concern, the swordsman never slowed. He dug for a reaction, the sword blurring faster. Twice now he had summoned power into his sword yet doing it on purpose was still beyond him. Vincent pressed against the edge of death and reached out for empowerment. It was a blind grope, his viciousness leading.

Nothing.

Distracted by frustration, Vincent had to awkwardly duck a claw. The tail swept his legs before he could recover. Slapping a hand to the ground gave him an opportunity to pivot the momentum. It was clumsy, but enough for him to escape. The Ratsin’s fangs flashed, snapping an inch away. From the air, the swordsman thrust the tip through an eye. It didn’t flinch and his feet never made it back under him.

Crushing pain struck his shoulder as fangs dug. The weak defense of Vincent’s Form was unable to resist. Some smaller fangs were blocked by the gambeson, but the longer ones punched through to muscle. It whipped him into the air, wounds tearing.

A mix of emotion roiled in the swordsman. Shame, rage, and loathing twisted together with the pain into a moment of singular focus. He grinned as a red light shone from the blade.

I believe I am almost there, thought Vincent. It is a trick of the mind. The right perspective of the mind is required to call this at will.

While still gripped at the shoulder, there wasn’t a great angle to retaliate. He painfully defended himself from the incoming claws. Most of his focus was on timing his swinging body for an attack, but that became unnecessary when the light proved strong enough to shear through the rat’s hand. One hand was reduced to two clawed fingers. Which still unyieldingly tore at him.

Snarling, the swordsman swung to break free, but the light had gone out. The fragile empowerment had faltered after the first swing. The right mindset had slipped away. Vincent roared with indigent anger and pain. He began wildly swinging his sword, digging into any flesh within reach. With his empty hand, he slammed, gouged, or ripped. Desperately trying Every effort to get free.

Vincent refused to give in to despair.

Even as the Ratsin began trying to rip off his leg.

A ball of flame detonated across the back of the monster. He felt a splash of the heat before tumbling free. The rat thing shrieked as its dry skin immediately caught aflame. Vincent rolled away from the inflamed thrashing. Briskly, painfully, the swordsman rose to his feet ready to fight despite the slump of his form. He was taking a step towards the monster when something grabbed his collar from behind.

It yanked him back with terrible strength.

He landed right into someone’s arms. A look upwards and Vincent identified John Harken. The priestly man lowered him carefully to the ground before starting a healing spell. Between him and the Ratsin was Malachi. The beast was ripe for an attack, rolling around on its back screaming, but it was the sword acolyte that held his attention. Normally mild in expression, there was now an eruption of fury. It was aimed directly at him. The swordsman felt cold under the force of that stare.

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“Fool,” growled Malachi. “You don’t get to do this. Be this reckless...Agh... Together! We do this together!” Before he could reply the bearded man stepped forward to bring their faces even closer together. “I expect better from you.”

Claiming an iron hold on the last word, their leader swiveled back to the Ratsin. Rage still radiated off Malachi as he stalked forward. Vincent barely noted when others flowed past him to join in the fight too. His thoughts were entirely turned inwards. His face flushed not just from blood loss, but embarrassment. He fought against the feeling with pride and weak rationales. All to no avail in the end. Malachi’s words echoed cleanly.

Harken finished a variation of Shepherd’s Restoration and a golden light soothed the pain away. Vincent got to his feet silently, still lost in thought. Pride continued to stoke pointless arguments. He saw where this path of bitterness would lead. The embarrassment had already soaked into his bones. There was nothing to do, but to accept the rebuke. It was logical. Completely logical, and yet it wouldn’t settle in his mind.

Interrupting his train of thought, Harken asked, “How are you feeling?”

“Like a scolded child,” frowned Vincent.

“Ahh, yes I could see that,” replied Harken thoughtfully. With a small smile, “Though I meant physically. I wanted to make sure the healing worked since you were only standing there. I expected you to leap back into the fight.”

Vincent flinched at the mild accusation, guilt swelling. He considered the other man as they patiently waited for a response. He's a little crazy, but there is something warm about him. Should I speak to him about this? Some advice might be refreshing.

Beyond them battle continued, but Vincent couldn’t allow himself to look. He could see furious movements in Harken’s eye as the man watched over his party. The impulse was strong to skip over the rebuke and immerse himself in battle. A weakness to resist, as Vincent was certain he needed to untangle his emotions first. Going into the fight distracted got you killed.

The issue is the thrill I am feeling, decided the swordsman. A whole life in pursuit of living by the sword and I have finally found it! Is there any wonder at the exhilaration I am feeling? No, the issue is I have let this make me stupid.

“My pride tells me to ignore this,” began the swordsman. “I find it saying to me, “I want that recklessness! I want to put myself on that edge, to risk myself. To see just how far my skill can take me!” It speaks and I hear. Powerful because this is the last aspect of being a swordsman I could never live out. Risking death, my life on a blade’s edge. How could I really claim the title without it? Every bout was safe... Harm was never truly a concern. Perhaps, it’s not just that I was seduced by the notion, but instead, I actively allowed myself to descend into the thrill.”

“Living out a dream is never how you expect it,” remarked Harken. “No doubt in the dream, you were alone. The risk was measured only on you and what you sought. The Sixty rely upon your skills, swordsman. You aren’t alone, that is a gift and a burden.”

Vincent felt embarrassed again. The tone of his reply was faint with disbelief, surprised at his blindness. “I’m not alone… is it that simple? That must be why I angered Malachi. I didn’t even think there was anything that could destroy that man’s equilibrium.”

“As I understand it, he did ask you to teach everyone how to fight,” answered Harken. “We’ve done well today. How much of that is because of the attention you gave your students? Malachi included.”

It spun through his head, the last two days. The private lesson and the group ones he had given. Not everyone had been ready to come out into the dark, but he acknowledged the few that were worthy. The rest were waiting for him to continue the lessons. Truthfully, he hadn’t taken the teaching very seriously. Even before when back on Earth, it was just a paying job for him. The actors or other enthusiasts hadn’t matter much at all. Only something to pass the time.

Harken was right, what the man was hinting between the lines. This time was different. It mattered.

“I am being relied upon,” said Vincent with confusion and some distress. That had been true before in a lesser sense. Only for jobs and pastimes. Nothing serious. Nothing where lives were on the line. Laughing dryly he continued. “I don’t think I have ever felt like I needed to take anything seriously before. Beyond the sword it was all noise.”

The swordsman looked at the priestly man with a wavering smile.

Harken met his eyes kindly and gripped his shoulder brotherly. “To be relied upon is not such a terrible thing. It will give you more gifts than struggles. If there is fear that you have sinned against the Sixty, worry not. For though we have come to rely on you, we shall also support you in turn. Rely on us to aid you. Malachi pulled you back before you went too far. Learn from this, and I don’t doubt he will forgive you.”

His words assured Vincent. It was a scary notation to accept the weight of others. The desire to put it all on the line was still there. Still burning bright and red. The swordsman now felt sure that he could hold it back. The Pit was a dangerous place. Desperate and risky moments would be necessary sooner rather than later. The beast would be fed.

“Aye, yeah, he’s a good sort,” agreed Vincent mildly. “I’ll keep myself in line, stick with the group.”

“And if he should send you back?” probed Harken.

Vincent paused in thought to allow the horror and shame of that wash over him. Soaking that cocktail in. Shaking it off, he said, “I guess I would listen. I was one of the people that put him in charge. Even if I was indifferent to who wore the crown... Be odd not to listen to him, right?”

“Seems a good leader to me,” offered Harken. “Shame to not listen to a man you respect.”

“Shame indeed,” colored Vincent. “As if I didn’t make enough of a fool of myself today.”

Taking a deep breath the swordsman turned to see how the fight with the dried-up Ratsin was going. For him it was like turning the channel. A sudden blast of noise and new sights as his attention switched. The party was holding its own. Momentum was theirs, but there wasn’t anything decisive about the fight yet. The swordsman pulled his sword free. He glanced back at Harken with a raised eyebrow.

“Go… go,” the priestly man waved him off. “I wasn’t told to stop you or anything. Join in the battle.”

Vincent nodded in thanks.

Once limbered up, he considered. No reason to jump in if I am going to slip up again.

By force of will, he deliberated on the battle from the perspective of group dynamics. Creating new pathways of thought to see where to seamlessly join in. Fighting alone has been the way for decades, and it was hard to switch. Group tactics were obviously known to him. It was just a matter of reworking his mindset. Before this moment Vincent had looked solely for how he could finish the fight.

The best time to change is now, never tomorrow, the swordsman reminded himself. Adding fervently, This moment should be pivotal, so it sticks in my mind.

His Form began to hum to life as Vincent considered the right approach.

Julia stood close to the Ratsin, diligently tanking the reckless assault. Damien launched spells that gouge chunks out of the monster and Malach danced for distractions, his word and sorcery scouring the flanks. A barrage of arrows from Clarissa had managed to disable the hind legs. The monster was unfazed despite the numerous wounds. Its face was ravaged, thin blood dripped from gouged sockets. Though the blindness didn’t seem to slow the beast at all. An attempt to mar the others was batted aside by the shieldmaiden. Her shield swung and there was an explosion of blue Mana that tossed the rat thing off its feet.

This was his moment. The Ratsin was disoriented and open from the counter.

He could see what to do, the party was in the middle of resetting their positions. If the swordsman rushed in it would be an easy task to slip in for the final blow. Vincent was confident he could pull it off, but that still wasn’t good thinking. That was a risky maneuver and not one that was working with the team. His attention turned to what the party was preparing, asking himself, Where can I fit in with their plan?

As Vincent moved to join them, Malachi and he shared a look. The leader paused in consideration. A blink and then the bearded man nodded at the arm with two fingers. “Remove it,” explained Malachi. The breath he had been holding on to was released with a soft hiss. His worry gone.

He narrowed all focus onto that arm. Feeling it removed, seeing it severed. There was satisfaction in finishing off the arm. Red light emanated from his sword. Before, the shade had been crimson and violent. An expression of his thirst for combat and Vincent was trying to ascend above that. This time the light was lighter, becoming a soft shade of rose. The burnished sky of a red sunset.

The hue appealed to him.

A color of balance.

Malach cast his new spell Barrier: Shackles, and thus signaled the rest of them to start. Translucent chains sprouted from the ground ahead of their charge. The Ratsin hissed as the chains pulled tight and constricted the beast. Assuming their momentum, Damian used a modified Starfield to rain down explosions as coverfire. Vincent and Julia aimed for an arm each. The clawed arms thrashed wildly about, seeking to break free. The swordsman didn’t hesitate. He leaped and the rose blade met no resistance. The arm fell to the ground behind him. To his side, the shieldmaiden attacked with a flurry of blows. Her dependable aura changed into something unyielding and sharp. The Ratsin’s arm was hacked apart.

Effectively limbless, the rat thing roared with undying hatred. Surging forward, it snapped rabidly at them. A green arrow cut through the battlefield and left a hole on either side of the Ratsin’s skull. Its cries were silenced, but the Ratsin refused to stay down. Slowly the monster turned to look at the archer. The mouth opened to release a shriek. Three streaks of green drilled holes lengthwise through the head. The thin horror collapsed.

No one relaxed until the powdering took effect.

The party gathered to Malachi. Their leader was surveying how the other groups were doing. It was a pleasing sight, over half of the cavern had been cleansed. This was despite the difficulty of the fight rising the further they went. Vincent wondered what they could do if all of the Sixty had come. Better yet, when all of them did.

The swordsman made his way over to the sword acolyte. His leader briefly look at the rose sword before the attention was entirely on Vincent. Pride and embarrassment roiled again, but it was a distant thing. Outside his current concern. He waited to see what the Malachi would say.

“You look alright to continue,” said Malachi seriously. “Stick with us.”

The swordsman released a breath of relief. Ok, not quite fully forgiven, but I’m not damned. I can work with that.

With a grin, he walked with the party.